Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
“How about this? I’ll go to the dance if you let me work at Froyo.”
“No.”
“How about Marjory’s?”
He shudders and slams the dishwasher shut. “No.”
Turning, he braces his arms behind him. The muscles in his biceps bulge slightly and the blue T-shirt with the faded Adidas logo pulls up slightly from his jeans. A tiny sliver of skin peeks through. I take a heavy breath, not fully understanding why my heart rate is speeding up or my hands feel slightly sweaty. I rub my palms against my own jeans and play my trump card. “I’ll enter a piece of my art in the Junior League Art show in the spring.”
Silence hangs between us. I know how much he wants this. He’s been hounding me to do it for a year now, ever since a visit to the Met when he discovered that it was a thing students could do.
I press. “Froyo, where I’m working with people you don’t know, hanging around that bad element of teens who smoke weed and have sex, or Marjory’s, where you can keep an eye on me.”
“One hour a week and only when I’m there.” I jump up in the air and let out a yelp of victory. “And I want to see the application to the art show filled out in the morning.”
“You got it.”
I throw myself at him, like I wanted to do when he first came home but I was afraid to. Afraid he’d somehow read my inappropriate thoughts about him and push me away. He catches me—as he always does. His big arms pull me up against his frame. I bury my face in his neck and inhale his special scent straight from the source. I have this overwhelming urge to stick out my tongue and see what he tastes like. Wonderful, I imagine.
I wriggle out of his grasp before I can do something stupid.
* * *
The next day I show up at Marjory’s right after school. The place isn’t very full, and Mary is sitting at one of the back tables, her feet up on a chair, reading a magazine.
She lowers it slightly as I approach. “What do you want?”
“Hi, Mary.” I hesitate, because Mary’s like Felix. She knows where to strike to hurt you. I’m careful not to get too close. “Is Leka here?”
She raises the magazine again so I can’t see her face and so she doesn’t have to look at me. “No.”
That’s it. No, he’s out or he’ll be back soon. Just a no, like I’m some stranger off the street. Still, if I’m going to work here, I need to be able to hold my own with her, so I take a deep breath and say, “I’m here for a job.”
The magazine falls out of her hands. She laughs, a full-on belly laugh, and I stand there like an idiot watching her. Finally, she dabs a napkin at the corners of her eyes. “God, kid. I needed that. How hilarious.”
“I’m not kidding. Leka said I could work here an hour every day.”
“You ever look in the mirror, honey?” she asks. “Because it’s a fright. No one’s going to eat if you’re out here taking orders and delivering food. They’ll take one look at your mug and lose their appetite.” She places a hand on the top of her big tits. “You’ve got to have good looks to work in the front of the restaurant.” She picks up her magazine and starts reading it again. The silence is punctuated by a few giggles.
“I’ll work in the back then. I can wash dishes, cut stuff.”
“No. We don’t need help.”
“But Leka said—”
She slams her hand down. Her pretty face screws up tight, making her look like Felix the rat. “Leka doesn’t run Marjory’s. I run Marjory’s, and what I say goes. You don’t belong here. Now get out.”
A bell tinkles and we both twist to see the door from the kitchen swing open. Through it walks Leka and Beefer.
“Hi, Beefer.” I wave a limp hand in his direction.
He comes over and gives me a big hug. “How’re you doing, Lizzie?”
I grimace into his chest both because I have to endure this hug and because he calls me by that hideous nickname. “Good.”
“I hear you’re going to work for us after school.”
I glance toward Mary, who glares at Beefer.
“I thought I was in charge of the staffing decisions here,” she snipes.
“You are,” he says, giving me another squeeze before releasing me.
“Then no, she’s not working here.”
Leka steps up between Beefer and me and places a hand at the base of my neck. “Why not, Mary?”
His voice is low, calm, and even, but there’s a terrifying quality to it. And Mary senses it, too. The unstated warning in his quiet words is that whatever answer she gives better be one that he likes.